#collectedbooks

     She ignores the usual stares and murmuring as she strides into the room, her black ensemble sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the softer pastels and blues of the other partygoers. Anne’s grown accustomed to it by now—sometimes even enjoys it, being the oddity, something for people to talk about and wonder to themselves. It’s entertaining to watch their faces twist in confusion when she approaches with a bright smile and a firm handshake—

     Except this one. This man draped in soft creams with matching hair and a dazzling smile who readily accepts her firm grip. She matches his enthusiasm with slight puzzlement as they’re called in for dinner and she takes a seat next to him.

crowley,   while not as sadistic as his fellow demons,   does genuinely find amusement in pranking,   cheap scares,   and other such mischief.   thus,   it should really come as no surprise that he occasionally uses his serpent form to deliver a few spooks to people that deserve it.   after all,   what else is he going to do   ?   he’s already done the whole tempting a woman into eating an apple bit.

his fun is over and had now,   though,   and he returns to the bookshop.   he decides he’s feeling too lazy to bother changing back to a proper humanoid shape,   and slithers his way to the back room.   if asked why he chose the shop rather than his own place   (   which is,   all things considered,   rather uncomfortable.   of course,   that’s exactly how he wants it   )   ,   he’d simply say that it was closer.

symbol prompts! | ACCEPTING |  💅 SELF CARE SELF CARE - @collectedbooks Send 💅 to do my muse’s nails.

THE MEME FOR PEOPLE WHO HATE HAPPINESS // accepting. 

29. Your muse visits mine in prison.

                                                                                                                        LONDON, 1958

          “You got a light?” comes a husky voice somewhere on the left. Crowley reaches out absent-mindedly, a flickering flame of hellfire dancing on his fingertip. The guy stares. “How the hell did you–”                    “Magic trick,” he lies quickly. Get your own damn lighter if you’re going to ask questions. “What are you in for?”

          His cellmate shrugs, inhaling the smoke. The blessed laws of the 20s century. Someday the humans will realize that this crap is slowly killing them. For now, he mirrors the gesture, cigarette smoke filling the air with a crisp stench of burning. He must adapt to earthly rituals, for now. Not for long, though, he can’t stay here. It’s cold. It’s cold without any external source of heat, and his leather jacket isn’t helping. Besides, they’d notice he doesn’t age. The thing about miracles, however, is that they can’t be performed all the time. Not after stepping on the consecrated ground, for instance. He’s still a little dizzy. It was a stupid decision to do it on his own.

         “Caught my wife with her boss. Grabbed my shotgun.” Crowley winces. Murderer, then. Too brutal for his taste. “Give ‘em women freedom, huh? You?”                   He shrugs.                    “Attempted robbery. Technically. For my money they’re more set on blasphemy.”

         The guy’s eyes widen. A god-fearing murderer. Maybe some people are okay without demonic interventions – they’ve got pretty good at self-deception.          “You danced in a church naked or somethin’?”          And why would anyone do that?         “Churches abide in something I needed for myself.”

         The other apparently decides not to go there. Instead, he keeps silent for a moment, taking another drag on his cigarette, and then shudders. “It’s cold as hell in here.”         “Colder,” Crowley mutters glumly. “Won’t be cold for you, though. Murder, ‘s a… nasty thing. And no smoking inside.”         The expression on his cellmate’s face is priceless. Oh, he shouldn’t have said it.          “I’ll pray to God every day while I’m doin’ my time.”         “Good luck with that, buddy,” he hums, suddenly tense as his heart skips a beat. Metaphorically. “SHE never hears.” GOD might not hear. Angels do. He rises from his bed like a broken spring, getting to the gate in one enormous stride. Aziraphale will ask questions Crowley doesn’t want to answer right now, but he never asked for anything in return, after all. Well, except for the thing. The thing that he attempted to get on his own and ended up here. 

     the bell over the shop door rings a cheery sound as she enters, though it is quickly muffled by the untold number of books that line every surface (and much of the floor). paper, papyrus, and vellum do not often lend themselves well to acoustic conduction. she wonders, for a moment, if that’s the point. the written word can be a shelter from the outside world- perhaps it likewise shelters its proprietor. 

what was it again? 

it will treat you well/  to seek out the shop/  of mister a.z. fell

     prophecy isn’t a science, no matter how often oreva wishes it to be. she supposes it must have been even worse in the days before when you could just type ‘a z fell shop’ into google. its yelp reviews were less than favourable- but that was of no matter. her prophecies may not always steer her straight, but they had never steered her wrong.